Nineteen years ago I bought a car for £80 ($160). It was an tatty old orange colored Lada Riva, a Russian built car that was designed to withstand the rigors of Russian life and serve its master like a trusted old plough horse. I paid cash in a brief exchange that felt more like a drug deal being conducted in the deserted parking lot on the outskirts of Chelmsford far from the gaze of prying eyes. My small bundle of tens was counted and the exchange was made. With the cold metal keys in my hand as the seller drove away, I opened the creaking door and said Hello to my ‘new car.’
It wasn’t a pretty, fast, or remotely alluring vehicle. Instead it handled like a North Sea fishing trawler and moved at about the same speed. This was a head-turner or a car for all the wrong reasons, and while many might have simply consigned it to the scrap heap, I began what would become a classic relationship with that aging Russian Riva.
It was to be the first in a long succession of what I’ll call character building cars, the kind that would see out there last days on the roads of Britain in my hands.
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Time of death : 23:16
I could write an entire book full of tales of the crap cars I've owned. This was just an exersize to see if the story went somewhere. It didn't so I euthanized it.